Universal
by kteli.99
Summary: Star Trek meets ET, kind of. Not a crossover fic. 15 year old Jim's life is irrevocably changed when an alien called Spock appears in his garage. Together, Jim and his friends need to help him get home. K S Ensemble cast. AU. Non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

'An unidentified vessel has fired upon the ship. All crew are to report to battle stations.' The clear, inflectionless voice of Commander Soven cut through Spock like ice. _Fear is an_ _emotion_, he thought to himself, squashing down the sudden spark of alarm that had jumped in his chest and began to traverse through his veins_. I am Vulcan. I am in control._ Such emotional outbursts, while discouraged, were tolerated in young Vulcan's while they were in the process of achieving full control. But he was 14 now, and could not be excused. Emotions in check, he made his way through the innards of the Explorer Mark 8.

The ship was devoted to the study of alien worlds and civilisations that had not yet discovered Inter-Planetary travel. It was currently orbiting around a planet that the native life-forms had deemed Earth.

Earth was a type-M planet, the third planet from the sun in an eight planet solar system. Unlike Vulcan's primarily desert terrain, 70.8% of Earth's surface was covered in water, although the most advanced species were land based. It had a denser atmosphere than Vulcan and a generally lower temperature. However, there were many variances in temperature and the planet had a wide variety of discrepancies in temperature and land forms. The diversity of the planet meant that the planet had an intriguing geology. Despite this, Spock found that his interests lay primarily with the species of Earth.

The most advanced species, humans, were a fascinating study. Although highly emotive and illogical, they had an advanced social order and codes that were similar enough to Vulcan's that the development of inter-planetary trade was an intriguing future prospect, once the species had achieved warp travel. Humans had a shorter life-span than Vulcans and were in a process of rapid industrialisation and scientific discovery. Vulcan scientists had estimated that humans would achieve inter-planetary travel in approximately 50 Terran years. They were unable to make a more accurate prediction as the species appeared to be incredibly unpredictable and their rate of development was prone to fluctuations.

There was some debate about the prospect of trading with Earth in the future. Some regarded the humans as too emotive and unpredictable. They appeared to be a primarily unaggressive race, but in their recent history there had been wars that had rivalled the Klingons in terms of scale and violence. Spock's father was one of the most prominent advocates for future Human/Vulcan relations, and certainly the most important. He was the chief science officer aboard the ship, and was investigating the subtleties in human culture through the use of observation and data that could be acquired through human technology. Spock was on board at his father's behest. Sarek wished for his son to follow the path that his father had set out for him, and hoped that one day he might be Ambassador to Earth. Many had stated the illogic of having a 14 year old on board the science vessel, but T'Pau had supported Sarek in the decision and as such the proposal could not be refuted. After all, nobody could accuse _her_ of being illogical.

Spock had found that despite his reservations, he had become fully immersed in the study of Earth. The highly emotive nature and unpredictability of the native humans had turned them into a puzzle that Spock wanted to figure out. They did not follow the path of logic and the suppressing of emotion that was the Vulcan way, and yet they prospered. Vulcan's, when driven by emotion, had nearly destroyed themselves, and Spock yearned to find out why the highly emotive humans managed to survive. He had spent his time aboard the ship deep in contemplation and scientific curiosity. At this moment in time however, he was otherwise preoccupied.

The ship shuddered wildly as another missile contacted and Spock was flung from his feet. A sharp pain ran through his left arm. He ignored it and assessed the extent of the injuries he had attained.

A man dressed in the uniform of an engineer studied him apathetically. He had been travelling in the opposite direction to Spock-Spock calculated a 94.6% chance that he was going to the engineering section of the ship- and, unlike him, had managed to stay on his feet when the contact shook the ship. 'Do you require aid or medical attention?'

Spock saw that, although he was bleeding in several places, the wounds were superficial and he was in no danger from blood loss. 'I am functional and able to traverse without assistance.'

The engineer tilted his head slightly in recognition of Spock's statement and continued onwards at a hurried pace. Carefully, Spock got to his feet and continued towards the bridge. His father had been stationed there at the time of the attack and it was therefore the most logical place to search for him.

Spock couldn't hide his relief when he entered the bridge and saw his father's stern visage. It seemed that his father was relieved also, as his features softened slightly when he became aware of Spock's presence. His father had a large gash on his forehead that was weeping blood freely, but he merely wiped away the blood that was dripping into his eyes. The bridge was in a state of ordered chaos. Several stations and pieces of equipment had short-circuited and were sparking dangerously. A medic was tending to a female navigator who had severe burns on the left side of her body. Spock turned away from the angry green burns, trying to maintain his tenuous control. A support beam had collapsed under the attack and lay in the middle of the floor amidst a tangle of twisted metal and wires, some of which were active.

'Spock.' His father addressed him. 'You should not be here.'

Spock lifted his chin in a gesture close to defiance. 'I have no duties to tend to, and therefore offer myself as additional support. It is instrumental to get the control stations in working order and I could be of assistance in that respect.'

His father considered his proposal for 1.376 seconds. 'Logical.' This was all that was needed as an affirmative, so Spock made his way to the sizzling navigation console. A visual inspection of the work surface revealed that the damage there was superficial; leading him to the conclusion that it was the inner workings that had sustained damage, possibly from a release of electricity that occurred when the ship had been hit. He crawled under the station-his relatively small stature was fortuitous as it allowed for increased manoeuvrability-and removed the access panel to investigate its inner workings and internal damage. While it was unorthodox to have a 14 year old initiating repair on the bridge in the middle of a hostile situation, there were no regulations specifically against it and it would be illogical to refuse any help when the ship was in danger.

Spock didn't mention his ulterior motives for coming to the bridge, rather than assisting in engineering or helping the medics. A position here would allow him to remain close to his father, along with being privy to the ship's status and that of their assailant. While he was working on repairing the navigation console, he allocated a part of his attention to the voices behind him.

'What is the status of the ship?' Captain Syrrel queried.

His father answered. 'Shields are working at a capacity of 34.685%. Impulse power is functioning, but we have no warp speed. Weapons are fully functional. As of yet we have no visual view of the attacking vessel, yet sensors readings indicate that it is highly probable that the vessel is Klingon in origin, most likely a war bird.' Spock felt an unfamiliar dread crawl in his belly. Their vessel's primary function was in scientific exploration and analysis, and as such had low combat capabilities. Fighting alone against a Klingon ship, their odds of victory were approximately 1522 to 1, their odds of survival marginally higher. His inability to calculate the probability to a more accurate degree was demonstrative of his mental distress. He banished the thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the task at hand. He studied the innards of the console, hands moving purposefully through the tangle of wires and switches in a calculated dance, ignoring the sparks of electricity that stung his fingers.

'The ship is not responding to our hails on any frequencies. I will send out a distress signal momentarily, Captain.'

'Acknowledged, Lieutenant T'Paar. Helmsman, fire photon torpedoes 1 and 2. Target their weapons system.'

'Aye sir.'

'Captain, the vessel has-'The Lieutenant was cut off as a thunderous explosion shook the ship. Spock couldn't prevent a cry escaping when he was thrown against the sides of the enclosed space beneath the navigation console. Wires spluttered under him and a violent electric current ran from his psi-sensitive fingers through his body. A dull, numbing pain roared through his head. The ship was plunged into an unnatural twilight.

He lay still for a moment as his body refused to cooperate. Awareness of the outside world crept in gradually and he realised that his father was calling his name.

'I am functional.' He gasped over the pervading crackle of static that emanated from the distant communications console. Unfortunately, the navigation console was now beyond immediate repair, and so he gingerly slid out from the access panel. He took in the new state of the bridge with a disconnected gaze. In the past 36.744 seconds he had felt the deaths of 17 Vulcans aboard the ship. He saw that one of them had been on the bridge.

'Status,' the Captain demanded of Lieutenant T'Paar.

She was bent intently over the ravaged science station, face hidden behind a sleek curtain of hair, her left arm cradled awkwardly at her side, fractured or possibly broken. 'The ship is down to emergency backup power, Captain. Shields are at 0% capacity. We have no navigation, weapons or warp drive.' There was a slight but noticeable hesitation before she continued. 'The ships concealment has been compromised for a duration of 14.731 seconds. It is now functioning.'

A silence crept over the bridge as the implications of this set in. They had been using a rudimentary, low expenditure method of shielding that concealed the ship's existence from Earth's primitive sensors, although leaving it susceptible to the scanners of other ships. For a total of 14.731 seconds, the inhabitants of Earth had been aware of their vessels existence.

'Captain.' The tone of the Lieutenants voice commanded their attention. 'I am reading another ship in this sector. I am unable to determine its origin.'

Spock evaluated this new information. If it was assumed that the new ship was battle ready, there were several futures that could be ahead of them. If the ship was an ally of the attacking vessel then there was a 100% chance of their destruction. If the ship was an enemy of the attacking vessel, there was a chance that it could distract the vessel from attacking them, thereby providing them with an opportunity to escape. There was also the chance that the ship was responding to their hails and had come to render assistance, increasing their chances of survival exponentially. However, as of this moment the point was moot. They were both unable to ascertain the incomers status, and unable to launch a counter attack on their attackers or initiate evasive action. Speculation was unproductive.

The captain ordered them to do the only thing they could. 'As of now the primary function of every crewmember is to exact repairs on the ship and render medical attention to the critically wounded. Follow the option which is best suited to your abilities. Lieutenant T'Paar, you are to continue assessing the status of both ships'. Orders received, the bridge crew went about their respective duties with a concealed tension and anticipation of what could happen.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

'Captain.' T'Paars voice was dull with shock. 'The attacking vessel has been destroyed. The unknown vessel is aligning to board the ship.' The iron band that Spock hadn't realised was constricting his stomach released at the news. He heard the faint but unmistakable buzz of a transporter, and all eyes turned to the view screen, in front of which the outlines of three figured faded into existence. Once the transport was complete, three unknown Vulcans, one of which who was wearing a captain's robe, surveyed the room.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

After that, events transpired at a steadier pace. The ship that had assisted them was the Vulcan 'Surveyor Mark 5' which had been close enough to receive their distress signal. The ship that they had destroyed had been the Klingon 'Executioner'. The Surveyor had been able to drop out of warp behind it while their attention was focused on the destruction of the Explorer, taking them by surprise and enabling both their shields and weapons system before they were able to render a counter attack. The Klingons had responded to the hails and refused to be taken into custody. Rather than escape with the still capable warp drive, the ship had self-destructed. Spock mourned the unnecessary loss of lives-the price for Klingon honour. For now, they ignored the question of why the Klingons had attacked them in the first place and instead focused on immediate events.

The Explorer was for the moment irreparable. While it was possible that the ship could be salvaged once it had reached a spaceport, for now it was useless. A team of engineers on the Surveyor were devising a method for the Explorer to be moved by having it 'piggy-back' on the back of their ship. Even if the ship was unsalvageable it could not be allowed to remain as space debris so close to an underdeveloped planet. Instead, it was able to be pulled along behind the Surveyor as it moved along using impulse power. The Explorer was to be fully evacuated as it was estimated that life support would shut down completely in 4.726 hours.

A large proportion of the crew had been wounded to various degrees, and many required urgent medical attention. Spock had received numerous cuts but had sustained no serious injuries. As one of the few fully able Vulcans on board the Explorer Mark 8, he assisted in the treatment and transportation of the wounded. Due to the mass transportation of wounded and dead that would be required it was deemed efficient to enact repairs on the ships transporters. The energy expenditure required for the repair and use of the transporters would be less than the repeated use of the Surveyor's sole shuttlecraft, and it was necessary for the swift movement of those with serious injuries.

Spock had just finished tending to the wounds of a young science officer and was watching as she was beamed to the Surveyor. At the time of the attack she had been studying some of the various gases that were indigenous to Earth but unknown to Vulcans. The damage the ship had sustained had caused an outbreak of a substance that was harmful but not life threatening to Vulcans, and she had been affected. Spock was relieved that the harm she had sustained was not permanent. He turned around after watching her transportation to find Commander Soven standing behind him. The Commander had remained to oversee the treatment and transportation of wounded, and was waiting for Spock's full attention before addressing him. 'There is only a small number of wounded who still require attention. Your further presence aboard this ship is unnecessary. Prepare for transportation.'

Spock nodded in acknowledgement and made his way to the transporter platform. The engineer manning the transporter controls pulled the required lever in a carefully controlled motion, and Spock felt the familiar tingle of the transporter as his atoms were spread across the universe. He didn't notice the sparks from the transporter that succeeded his departure.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

As soon as Spock materialised he realised that he wasn't in either the Surveyor's or the Explorer's transporter room. He found himself eight feet in the air, and only had a moment to be shocked before his particles realigned themselves fully and he fell to the floor. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, and for 7.49 seconds he could only concentrate on forcing his lungs to take in the necessary oxygen. He curled over onto his side, unable to stand at this moment in time, and surveyed his surroundings as best he could.

He was in an enclosed area, a rectangular room that was exceedingly different to Vulcan's gracefully curved buildings and peaked towers in design. A window, set high in the wall, shone a beam of sunlight into the room. Dust motes drifted lazily within the golden haze while the rest of the room was cast in a dim shadow. Spock realised from the presence of sunlight that he was planet-side. And considering that at the time of transportation the closest planet in the ships vicinity was Earth, then the logical explanation was-

He was unable to complete that thought. Blackness evaded the edges of his vision and his world-or whatever world he was on- seeped into darkness.

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Sarek strode into the Surveyor's transporter room in anticipation of his son's arrival. His son had performed admirably in the combat situation and despite the illogic of such a sentiment, he could not contain the burst of pride that ran through him. His anticipation was diminished when he entered the room to find that the transporter platform was empty. The engineer manning the console turned to him as soon as he noticed his presence.

'Sir, the transporter appears to have malfunctioned. I am not reading your son's life signs on either of the ships.'

Fully shocked by this turn of events, although his face remained as impassive as always, Sarek contemplated the fate of his son. If he was not present on either ship, then by the process of elimination it was evident that he had either been transported to the planet below them, or into the vacuum of space. Alive or dead, it would be nearly impossible to find him.

'Sir.' Sarek saw that the engineer was patiently awaiting his orders.

'Instruct a team of engineers to ascertain the cause of the transporter malfunction. As there are few remaining Vulcans aboard the Explorer, the remaining necessary ship to ship transport should be conducted using a shuttlecraft.'

'Aye sir.'

He could not afford to think about Spock right now. Many Vulcans had died. He had felt their deaths, and mourned their loss along with the loss of Klingon lives. His duty took priority over his concern for his son, as his preoccupation with his son's status could affect the status of further Vulcans. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. It was logical.

And yet, despite the illogic of the act, Sarek could not prevent his mind from turning towards his son.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Authors note: I'm not too happy with this chapter but oh well. Also, this is set in the early 21st century, and I realise the improbability of Vulcan ships in this era using the same command system as 23rd century Starfleet, but I couldn't think of another way to have it. This classes as an AU, so just suspend your disbelief. The rest of the story will be set on Earth, so it doesn't matter much.

I have most of the next chapter written and a basic outline for where the story is heading, but this is my first attempt at a multi-chaptered fic and so a bit of feedback will probably make me write/update faster. Anyway, next chapter: Jim and Bones, and maybe some Uhura.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Steven Carnell scowled. The young secretary darted a nervous, apologetic glance at him as she rummaged through a stack of papers on her desk. With every movement they shifted tremulously, threatening to overspill onto the polished floor.

'I'm really very sorry, sir. I'm certain it's here somewhere.'

Carnell sighed through his teeth, and wished for the eighth time in half as many days for his usual _competent _secretary to recover from her bout of flu. He had a _killer_ toothache, but it didn't stop him from showing up to work. The replacement secretary let out a soft, startled _'oh!'_, and Carnell watched, unsurprised, as the papers spilled onto the floor in slow motion. The secretary looked on helplessly.

At this moment an agent hurried through the reception doors, skidded to a stop inches away from him and gave a crisp salute. He had a peaky, eager face, and Carnell tried to remember his name before deciding that it wasn't important. According to the last workplace seminar he had been forced to attend, knowing the names of your underlings and colleagues was beneficial in creating a comfortable working environment. This was something that Carnell considered a luxury most people didn't deserve. If one of his men couldn't do his job without being patted on the back every ten minutes, he was out.

'Sir, there's been a new development that needs to come to your attention.'

Carnell waited impatiently for the man to say something further. Refraining from sighing-barely-he prompted the man to elaborate in a tone that disguised none of his general annoyance with incompetent secretaries, green agents and his goddamn toothache. 'Would you care to tell me what this new development _is_?'

The man hesitated. 'I...I don't know myself sir. Humbert sent me to collect you.'

'Very well.'

They left the room together, Carnell walking at a brisk march while the man-he still didn't know his name, and didn't care to ask for it-trotted along using a strange half-skipping motion to keep up. When they entered the control centre, it was a hubbub of activity. Carnell had no time to examine the cause of the commotion before Humbert approached him.

'Sir.'

'Humbert. What's this all about?'

'Frankly sir, it would be easiest if you just looked at it.'

Carnell was becoming slightly annoyed at the evasive dance his men were leading him on. 'Move,' he barked in an assertion of authority at the agent who was monitoring the screen, trying to show that while he was doing as Humbert suggested, _he_ was in charge and would act as such. Carnell slid into the vacated chair and regarded the monitor. He frowned.

'Is this a joke? A hoax?'

Humbert laughed. 'If this is a hoax, then it's sure as hell an elaborate one. Um, sir. The image has been picked up by multiple satellites.'

'What time was it taken?'

'Just a few minutes ago sir. We called you as soon as we were certain.'

'And we _are_ certain? It isn't one of ours? Some new experimental model?'

'If technology like this was available, believe me we'd be the first ones to know.'

'Hmm...' Carnell checked himself. 'Humbert, instruct everyone to return to their jobs. Regarding the information, you know the procedure. I'll be in my office, and I'm not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.'

Half an hour later, Gilligan found himself at his desk, deep in thought. This was their biggest discovery since...hell, he didn't even know. Throughout the entirety of his career there had never been such a promising breakthrough. And yet...

Gilligan sighed. He was tense with excitement, but fully aware of how much could go wrong. The matter required utmost secrecy, and he would need to bring in an outside source to lead the case. Someone loyal; dedicated but not idealistic, who would report directly to him. Gilligan slid his fingerprint activated laptop towards him, typed in the necessary passwords and with a few clicks of a mouse pulled up a file of possible names. A few more clicks and he began the tedious task of examining and reviewing each of their profiles. While the selecting of personnel was a job that typically went to someone lower down on the totem pole, Gilligan was too invested in this mission to entrust the job to anyone else. Eventually, he had the choice narrowed down to a short-list. He leaned back and regarded the remaining names. One stood out among the rest.

'Chekov...'

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Today, James Tiberius Kirk thought decisively as he walked home from school, was Not A Good Day.

It had started with Percy Walkden. See, Percy was one of those boys who were beyond repair. Maybe he could never make daddy proud. Maybe he was overshadowed by his older brothers. Maybe he was pissed at his parents for sticking him with the name Percy. Jim didn't know, and since he didn't plan on striking up a friendly conversation with Percy anytime soon, he was unlikely to find out. All he knew was that Percy could only be happy if he was exacting misery on other people, and today those other people happened to include him.

Percy had cornered him before school, flanked on either side by his generic, cookie cutter cronies that Jim recognised from every movie ever made, and proceeded to try and beat the living daylights out of him. _Try_ being the operative word, as Jim was well versed in the arts of fighting. However, in an unequal fight like this the most that he could really do was to try and make it as hard as possible for them to hit him. Using this tactic he had fully infuriated them, snuck in a few decent shots of his own, but had still left the fight with a spanking new black eye. In retrospect, maybe he should have just let himself get beat up, because there was no way Percy would be satisfied with the black eye. As much as Jim enjoyed fighting, he didn't go looking for trouble. Well, maybe he did sometimes, but the majority of the time it was trouble that found him.

At school Nyota had pounced on him, demanding to know what had happened, and wouldn't relent until he recounted the tale. When he had finished she kindly offered to beat on them for half an hour or so. At this Jim had scowled and told her that thanks, but he didn't need _her_ to fight his fights for him. Nyota then got pissy, thinking that he was insinuating she was weak, and then Jim got pissy, and then they didn't speak to each other for the rest of the day. They had spent the remainder of the school day rotating between pointedly ignoring each other and sending each other death glares. For Jim and Nyota, days like this were a fairly common occurrence.

However, despite all evidence to the contrary Jim loved Nyota. She was the proverbial 'one that got away', the only girl he couldn't charm with a smile and a wink. He had met her at last year's homecoming dance. Jim had only just moved to Washington that summer and hadn't yet bothered to get to know anyone. His mother had forced him to go to the dance; afraid he wasn't making friends, and despite his many innovative methods of deception-followed by some somewhat shameful methods of begging-he couldn't withstand the force that was hurricane Winona when her mind was set.

So he was spending the dance perusing the decked out gymnasium of his new school and thinking about universal constants. There was the same flimsy crepe paper decorations, the same shy, awkward dance between the guys and girls who had just begun to dip their toes into the pool of romance. The same pretty, peppy cheerleader of a homecoming queen, the same cheap plastic drink cups and-Jim paused to sip his drink-yep, the same punch that had been spiked by some giggling moron. Hey, at least it wasn't him this time.

No matter where you went, some things remained the same. He had just taken a larger gulp of his drink, invigorated by the alcoholic content, when he spotted her.

Stately and striking, with glorious dark skin complimented by a simple red dress, she was on the periphery of a giggling circle of girls. She looked secluded, as if she didn't quite fit in, but it seemed to be by choice rather than design. A tiny brunette with a sharp pixie face threw her arms around her and shouted something in her ear to be heard over the music. The girl gave her friend a tight lipped smile and murmured something back. Pixie girl gave a somewhat fake squeal of laughter before moving away to talk to her more responsive friends. The girl looked relieved when Pixie left, and went back to sipping her drink and watching the proceedings with an unforced air of confidence. Jim sauntered over.

'Hi.'

'Hi. Fuck off, I'm not interested.'

Jim wasn't put off. 'Don't I even get a name?'

'You don't need one. You were just leaving.'

'Her name's Nyota.' Pixie slithered next to Jim and gave him a dazzling smile.

'Nyota...' Jim grinned. 'Exotic.'

Said Nyota glared at her traitorous friend, who shrugged and mouthed an unapologetic _what?_ in her direction. When the glare continued, Pixie huffed and moved away.

'My name's Jim, Jim Kirk.' He was fully aware of how Bondian that sounded, but from past experience knew it was anything but off putting.

Nyota regarded him with an intensity that made Jim squirm. 'I know who you are, Jim, Jim Kirk. You're the new guy that everyone's fawning over. The mysterious new kid with the bad boy attitude and the pretty boy face, right? You're every girl's dream and every guy's nightmare.'

He studiously ignored the blatant sarcasm. 'You think I'm pretty?'

For a moment, Jim was certain that looks actually could kill. Or at least seriously maim.

'_God_, you're conceited.'

'And you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.'

'_Girl?_ Look, I'm not interested. Nice try, though. You get an A for persistence, and because of that I'll leave you with some parting advice-get at least 20 feet away from here before I finish my drink. Because if you don't, then you may find yourself viewing the world from an interesting new perspective when I shove your head up your-'

'Okay, okay! I'm going!' He backed away slowly, eyes fixed on hers, hands raised in the gesture of surrender. If he had a white flag, he would be waving it now. It was only when he was a cool 30 feet away from her that he realised what had just happened.

_What the hell?_ He had just been scared away by a girl. And what was worse, that girl_ did not want to make out with him._ Now, there were plenty of girls that did want to make out with him, and Jim was very much comforted by this fact, but _still_. Shocked and dismayed by what had transpired, Jim took her failure to melt into a puddle of estrogen before him as a personal affront. It was the _principle_ of the thing. Despite-and maybe spurred on by-his initial failure, Jim was never one to back out from a challenge, and that was what Nyota was-a challenge. Jim decided to seek other means to get her to fall for him.

Jim realised that over the course of the next few weeks he would have to _talk_ to her, and prove himself to be more than just a pretty face. However, in his attempt to do this he discovered an unfortunate side effect. He realised that Nyota was actually brilliant. She was funny, and badass, and it was paradoxically because of this that Jim no longer wanted to make out with her. They had become friends, and for Jim true friendship was hard to come by. It had taken work-a _lot_ of work. His reputation had preceded him, and Nyota had regarded every friendly overture with suspicion and disbelief. She slowly began to warm up to him as she realised that his cocksure facade was just that-a facade.

It was then he realised that their newfound friendship worked both ways. He had wormed his way past her stony exterior, but in return Nyota had cracked through his crunchy candy shell, something that he hadn't allowed anyone to do. What had surprised Jim was the fact that she hadn't run away screaming from the sour blackness that was hidden underneath; instead, she had seen something good inside him, although Jim had no idea what. Sometimes he thought she didn't know him at all, while other times he thought she knew him better than he knew himself. _That _was a scary thought.

Anyway, he had long since given up his arrogant desire to make her fall for him. They had true friendship, and Jim didn't want to throw that away for a passing fling.

No matter how hot she was.

Jim turned into his street to find an unfamiliar blue Ford in their driveway, and his mom's car absent. Curious. As he drew closer he caught a raised voice, speaking in a pronounced southern drawl.

'...Look, I told you before...!'

Jim's ears pricked up. There was only one angry southerner who had any reason to be in his house.

Leonard 'Bones' McCoy was Jim's older cousin. He was his father's sister's son, and until his tenth birthday Jim had never seen him before. He had rarely seen anyone on his dad's side of the family because, really, why would he? The only link he and his mom had with them was through the deceased George Kirk. There had been several tentative visits throughout his childhood, and Jim had hated every one of them. The adults had chatted and made small talk and tried to ignore the horrible, oppressing feeling of loss as the tenuous link that had connected them grew fainter year after year. After each visit his mother had spent days in a terrifying, trance-like state, wincing whenever she saw her late husband's eyes peering out of the face of her youngest son.

It was during one of those get-togethers that Jim had first met Bones. It had been ten years since the death of his father-which was the same day as Jim's birth-and they were attending a remembrance service that was being made in recognition for his sacrifice and service to the country.

Of course, Jim had escaped as soon as he could.

He didn't want to hear about his father. He didn't want to know about the sacrifice he had made for them. He didn't want to be told once again of how much he looked like him, of how he was destined for greatness, just like his father. Bones had been his relief. Fourteen years to his ten, Bones had been everything Jim had needed. He listened to Jims bitching, he didn't judge, and on occasion he spouted off words of such wisdom that Jim was left momentarily speechless. The two had become firm friends, meeting up whenever they could.

His mother fully supported Jim's friendship with Bones. While Jim had had multiple 'uncles' throughout his childhood, he lacked a steady father figure and his mom felt obscurely that Bones would be a good male role model for him. The feeling had grown into something more substantial and assertive after Sam had left. To Jim, Bones wasn't a cousin or a role model. Despite the age difference, they were friends. And really, Jim had told his mom, what kind of role model woke his 15 year old cousin up on a school night with a 3am drunken phone call? Seven times? Honestly, with a role model like that it was no wonder Jim was so screwed up.

He entered the kitchen to catch the tail end of a heated conversation. Bones stalked around the kitchen, Blackberry jammed against his ear in a savage death grip. He spied Jim's entrance, made a vague gesture and proceeded to ignore him and continue arguing with the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line. Jim waited.

'Look, I gotta go, Jocelyn, we'll talk about this later, I...yeah...well, fine then!' Ah. Bones' girlfriend.

Bones stabbed the end call button and stared at the phone for a full minute before turning to face his cousin. Jim raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

'Trouble in paradise?' He asked innocently.

Bones pointed a warning finger at Jim. 'Don't. Start.' He sighed.

Jim gauged the seriousness of his friend's face. Bones looked ever so slightly terrible, with his brown hair even more messed up than normal and dark circles ringing his eyes. 'Okay, we'll talk about something else. Hi! Welcome to DC! What the hell are you doing here!'

'Change of plans. Tomorrow's flight was cancelled, and I figured that since there was no longer any reason to wait I might as well drive down today instead. Your mom didn't tell you?'

'I guess she thought it would be a cool surprise. You _drove_ all the way here?'

'Hey, there is _nothing_ wrong with driving. I'd rather spend 20 hours in a car than one minute in an aeroplane. God, I hate flying. Trapped in a tin can, moving through the air at 600 miles per hour. One small crack in the window and you're sucked out into the unforgiving air. It's unnatural, I tell you!' Jim smiled. He had missed Bones' melodrama.

'Okay, you do realise that the chances of being in a plane crash are like one in a jillion, right?'

'Yeah, well, knowing my luck, I'd be that one.'

'Pessimist.'

'I prefer to call it being fashionably cynical.'

'Bones, you're not fashionably anything.'

'I'm old beyond my years. You see Jim, unlike you, I have grown wise to the world, and I have learned that it sucks. We live and we die, and we try to fill our heads with the idea that our existence means something, that we have some divine purpose. We fill our lives with pointless actions and gestures, ideas of true love and fate, when all we are doing is turning away from reality and sticking our fingers in our ears, desperately trying to avoid the deep, unavoidable fact that we are not a unique and beautiful snowflake, that we will have no impact on the world, and that when we die we will rot in the ground, forgotten.'

Jim stared at him. 'Um, okay, thanks for that. That must have been a really bad phone call. So there's nothing that makes our existence worthwhile?'

'Oh, there's this and that. The only way to survive the oppressing futility of our existence is to start appreciating the little things. Mint juleps, for example.'

'Mint julep? That's a cocktail, right? Wow, you really are old beyond your years. And female.'

'It's a traditional southern cocktail, and the next time you mock it you'll get a traditional southern beating. You just need something small, like that, to keep despair at bay.'

'You mean like pie?'

'Exactly like pie!'

'So life is pointless, but there's pie so that's okay.' Jim frowned. 'Somehow that doesn't make me feel better.'

Bones smiled at him beatifically. 'You'll understand when you're older.'

'Bastard.' Jim muttered. At this the smile morphed into an obnoxious Cheshire cat grin. Jim pointedly ignored it and swung his backpack onto the kitchen table, perching himself on the edge. 'So where's mom?'

'Out. 'She said that I had to make sure you take out the trash because you always forget to do it. And that if you didn't do it she would do something to you that I don't think I should repeat in front of a minor. Apparently, Winona has a potty mouth.'

'Only when she's annoyed with me. Did she say where she was going?'

'I don't think so. If she did I've forgotten it.' Well that was helpful. It was pretty uncommon for his mom to go out, and Jim wondered if she had started dating again. Now_ that_ was a daunting prospect.

'She said she'd be back sometime late tonight, and that we should order Chinese or something. Apparently she doesn't trust either of us with the stove.' He scowled abruptly. 'I mean, I understand not letting you near a stove-'

'I resent that!'

'-but I'm 19! I'm in medical school, I...'

'Bones, you burn soup. Your pancakes have the consistency and taste of bricks. Your thanksgiving turkey is explosive. _Literally_, and I really want to know how you did that because I still say it would make an awesome bomb. We could patent it and give in an amusing fowl related name. Like the turkey tornado! Or-ooh, the clucking cyclone! The Bernard Mathews-'

'Okay, okay, point taken already! Just...stop talking about turkey.' Bones looked pained, and took a deep, _lord give me strength_ breath.

'Fine. What do I talk about if I can't talk about turkey?'

'Jesus, I don't care. Anything. Um, how was school?'

Jim shrugged. 'School was school. You know, pencils, homework, all that jazz. Why is it that _you_ get a two week spring break anyway?'

'Because_ I_ am now in medical school and am no longer an infant like you.' Bones was in his second year at Mercer University in Georgia, training to be, as he said, an 'ol' country doctor'. 'Besides, you have no idea how much I need this break. In the past week I have had the marvellous grant total of 40 hours sleep. It's a pretty bitter irony that doctors in training have to sacrifice their own health for the mere chance to improve someone else's.'

'It's a cruel world we live in.' Jim agreed sagely.

'Right. I mean, who doctor's the doctor?'

'Don't they have other doctor's for that?'

Bones ignored him. 'Between the quarterly exam, performing my first physical and preparing for step 1 of the USLME, I have had literally zero hours where I wasn't working, sleeping, or partaking in necessary bodily functions.'

'Gross.'

'That's actually what my fight with Jocelyn was about. Too much time working, not giving her the attention she needs, et cetera, et cetera.'

'What? You mean sex isn't one of your necessary bodily functions?'

Bones choked and spluttered for 41 seconds, a disappointing 35 seconds off Jim's personal record. Once he had recovered, Bones glared dagger eyes at him. 'You are a horrid, horrid child!'

'I try' Jim said modestly.

Bones sobered. 'She's right, though. I mean, I know I sounded pissed at her but she is right. I've barely seen her for the last two weeks, and I'm spending the next two weeks here. Ugh! I should make it up to her, just...just not right now. I don't have the energy.'

Jim had to make a conscious effort to refrain from saying something about Bones' girlfriend that he would regret later. He had only ever met her once last Christmas, but Jim had made it very clear to Bones that he did Not Approve. Jocelyn had been overly posh and polite to his mom in a grating, middle-class-trying-to-be-upper-class manner, and pretty much hated Jim. She didn't even take the effort to condescend to him, she just flat out despised him. Jim felt sorry for any future kids that Bones and Jocelyn had. Bones with kids, now that was a weird thought. A surreal and slightly disturbing image popped into his head of a bunch of Mini-McCoy's running around, scowling and yelling 'Dammit Jim!'

However, Jim was used to people hating him, and he knew his mom could look out for herself. He could live with that. What he couldn't live with was the way Jocelyn had Bones wrapped around her little finger, because dammit, Bones was his friend and he was better than that.

Yes, there was a lot he could say about Jocelyn. But Bones had just got here, and he didn't want to start a fight.

'Try calling her tomorrow?'

'Yeah...'

A vacant expression crossed over Bones face. Then his focus shifted to Jim, who winced inwardly as he practically saw the gears spinning away in Bones' head. Frankly, Jim couldn't believe it had taken Bones this long. Any minute now...

'What the HELL happened to your face?'

Jim writhed under the fury that was Leonard McCoy, who bounded over to him to investigate the black eye. He poked it experimentally. 'It's not a big-OW! Don't you have a Hippocratic Oath? Something about not hurting your patients?'

'The Oath's optional. Now stop being a baby and tell me what happened.' Okay, so Bones wasn't going to be distracted.

'Would you believe me if I said it wasn't my fault?'

'No.'

'Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.'

'Well, it is _you. _Tell me your version of the story, and I'll decide whether to believe it or not.

Once again, Jim recounted the tale and watched as his friends face went through a myriad of emotions. By the end of it Bones was seething, but at least his anger wasn't directed at _him_ this time.

'At least you gave as good as you got...' he murmured.

'Can you do something about it? Mom'll be pissed if she finds out I got into another fight.' Well, maybe not pissed. Disappointed, definitely, and somehow that was a thousand times worse. It was that look of hopeless acceptance that got him, as if she had simply been waiting for him to screw up.

'I'm a medical student, not a make-up artist. It's a nasty bruise, but that's all it is. If you put some ice on it might help ease the swelling.'

''Kay.' Jim searched for an ice pack, found none, and settled for a packet of fish sticks, fully aware of how stupid he looked with the packet pressed against his face. He looked over at Bones with a 'don't you dare laugh at my misery' expression. Shifting the position of the fish sticks, Jim spoke to an almost sniggering Bones. 'So, takeaway. How much money did mom leave us?'

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

The two had an enjoyably lazy evening. Bones was exhausted from both the drive up and a general lack of sleep, so they spent the evening eating pepperoni pizza, watching so-bad-it's-good reality TV and talking half-heartedly about easy, neutral topics that didn't involve black eyes or pissed off girlfriends

By half eleven Bones was sprawled on the sofa, doing what seemed to Jim an impressive impersonation of a puddle of water. Jim was under the impression that he had fallen asleep, and was both pleased and disappointed at this thought-Bones looked seriously exhausted, but Jim was getting seriously bored. He was mulling over whether he should wake him up-preferably using an inventive method that involved a small animal of some kind-when Bones spoke up.

'Jim.'

He regarded his friend, who still had his eyes closed and looked dead to the world. '...Are you asleep?'

'Not sure. Maybe. Did you take out the trash?'

'...'

'That's what I thought.' At this point Bones rolled over with a contented sigh.

'Bastard.' Jim muttered again, tugging on his faded trainers and flipping Bones off in an impressive bout of multitasking.

He was halfway across the yard and dragging a reluctant trashcan behind him when he heard it. A low, faint groaning coming from the garage. He froze. There it was again.

'Hello?' he called out hesitantly.

The sound has stopped, but Jim was certain that he hadn't imagined it. Making an executive decision, he ran into the house to get the garage door keys. His first thought was that their neighbours cat had become trapped in there (and if that was the case then Jim really didn't care because that cat was _vicious_), but as he hovered by the garage door his imagination kicked in. A failed burglary attempt? An escaped convict who tunnelled out of prison only to accidentally tunnel himself into a suburban garage? An axe wielding maniac waiting for an unsuspecting victim to investigate before he chopped up his face and ate it with fava beans and a nice Chianti? ...Probably not.

Even so, the dark garage coupled with the groans made for quite an impressive horror movie setting. Since Mom parked the car in the driveway, their seldom used garage was filled with crap and covered in dust. While painfully mundane by daylight, the garage was now filled with the unknown, as the benign shapes of paint cans and gardening tools became twisted shadows in the dim illumination of a nearby streetlamp. Bags of compost warped into deformed figures and mockeries of life. Yep, Jim wouldn't be at all surprised if Chuckie or that scream guy jumped out at him right about now. Pretty much prepared for anything, Jim flicked the lightswitch and saw the one thing he wasn't expecting to find.

A kid.

He was lying on the floor with his back to Jim, curled on his side in the shape of a comma. Jet black hair and a skinny body, he looked to be about Jim's age and was dressed in a weird bathrobe type thing. Besides its obvious addition the garage itself looked exactly the same, aside from some paint that seemed to have been spilt. Idiotically, the first thought that popped into Jim's brain was _how the hell did he get in here without a key_? He was actually a little pissed off about the idea of someone breaking into his property. That thought was soon chased away as he realised that the previously groaning boy had at some point in the last minute become deathly still and silent. He edged closer.

'Um, you okay?' No response. 'Are you hurt? Can you understand me?'

Now quite severely frightened for the boys safety Jim hurried towards him.

And froze. Jim was now positioned at an angle that allowed him to clearly see the boys face. The boy had strange slanted eyebrows that gave his face a perpetual frown. That was odd in itself, but what shocked Jim more was his ears – striking elf ears that tapered to a fine point. And then he saw that what he had earlier perceived to be green paint was oozing out of a large gash on the boys forehead. It was blood. Green blood.

Everyone knew that Jim was a juvenile delinquent. It was only a select group of people that knew he was also kind of a genius. And as hard as he tried, there was only one explanation that his genius mind could come up with that contained even a shred of sense.

The boy was an alien.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

AN: Longer chapter this time, but not much in the way of plot. Okay, first of all a _massive_ thank you to everyone who reviewed/favourite/put on story alert. I was admittedly nervous about putting this up, and it was incredibly encouraging to have four reviews within a day of posting. I had a massive grin on my face when I saw the emails in my inbox.

The other thing is that I'm British, and my knowledge of the USA comes from American movies/books/TV shows/Wikipedia. That being said, apologies in advance for any cultural/geographical/whatever errors.


End file.
